Craig Wisner

Photography

Untitled (Sunday driving).

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We drove for 12 hours

trying to catch the tail end

of the goddamned thing,

walked salt flats and rolling grass hills

looking for it

-everything dried out and parched

and it’s not even

summer yet.

 

You can smell the coming fires

in a warm, straw-like scent

hanging on the breeze

and we all talk, only half-joking,

of giving up and just hitting the road

for somewhere.

 

When the tires come to a halt

on another gravel turnout

and we stagger out

the cows look up slowly

from behind heat waves and wire fences

and it seems they know that the cows know

that they, too, may have little choice,

and that the will of God cannot be accounted for:

 

You get what you get

and you don’t throw a fit.

 

I have to wonder if our children were born

as melancholy as she and I

or if we did this to them

as I stand back watching and find the pair drawn

to oil seeps and broken glass on the desert floor,

or staring into the light of the sun

struggling through a coastal fog

and meeting it all with sighs and a far off look

that seems to penetrate a future I cannot know.

They are content, just like us, to drive and think

and revel in places where we’re strangers

and people let us know it,

feeling outside of it all.

 

(perhaps to make us feel that much closer)

 

We drove for twelve hours

until we caught it again, if only for a day

sitting separate from the blur of the world,

safe behind the window glass

-singing, wondering, being together

knowing these actions, conversations, memories

are the only solid footing we have.

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Photo Credits:  My Son

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